


Ghost Writer

by Grenegome



Category: Dresden Files - All Media Types, Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Bad Prose, Crack, First Time, Kinkmeme, M/M, Play within a Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:27:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grenegome/pseuds/Grenegome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob writes RPF in his spare time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost Writer

**Author's Note:**

> ...so, I know Bob is a spirit, rather than a ghost, but be kind and allow me my terrible pun.
> 
>  
> 
> WARNINGS for fictional (story within a story) dub/non con below. In this story, Bob makes use of the kind of romance novel tropes where situations involving dubious or no consent aren’t actually acknowledged as such by the text, the ubiquitous “no-no-no-no-OHYES” kind of narrative.
> 
> Originally written for the Dresden Files Kink Meme.

Typewriters are slow and cat paws are clumsy. But there’s only so much form-appropriate fun you can have, wearing a cat. Eventually, Bob’s mind always turns to more human pursuits; the itch is always there, the fascination with human bodies, human stories... and human stories _about_ their bodies, yowza!

The problem is, the stories Bob has access to are never quite what he wants to read. They never entirely scratch that itch; Bob’s reading material is filtered through Harry’s somewhat puritan tastes, his narrow interest in the world of the flesh. Bob’s pretty sure Harry will broaden his horizons eventually (most wizards do, filled with time and power as they are), but it’ll be a long time coming, waiting for the boy to loosen up a little, explore a little more.

So, every now and again, Bob makes use of his clumsy cat paws. He writes down what he wants to read. Not easily, because story telling is a very human skill. Making things up isn’t something that comes naturally to a Spirit of Intellect; it’s not like finding things out, or remembering them. It’s not repeating what he knows. It’s shaping something out of nothing.

Bob can’t quite do that. But he already has a framework to work from, in the books and magazines scattered around Harry’s lab; Bob can learn the patterns and apply them to the people that he knows.

Admittedly, Bob doesn’t keep much mortal company. But he knows Harry, watched the boy grow from a timid little apprentice into a rebellious powerhouse, knows all his moods, his terror and his rage, his curiosity, his affection. Bob has never been _liked_ by a master before, but then he had never been Bob before either. It was novel. Interesting. And because Bob is liked, and Harry likes to talk, Bob hears all about Harry’s friends. And acquaintances.

Bob thinks his little hobby is one of those things that mortals might frown on, that Harry would frown on. But bashing at the typewriter with cat paws and throwing Harry Dresden into the stories that interest Bob most somehow transforms them into stories that interest him _more_. It’s not like Harry can really be mad; this ink and paper version isn’t exactly Harry. Harry wouldn’t do the things Bob writes about, react in the ways Bob makes him, but he _could_ , if the world was slightly different. If Harry was slightly older. Less guarded. Well, mostly. The books Bob reads tend to feature a lot of ladies shirking from pleasure until some strapping fellow gets persuasive about it, and Harry... well, he is a shirker. He needs a little persuasion before he’ll agree to enjoy himself. Maybe not to _this_ extent but, well... it’s fun.

Bob looks down at his draft.

 _“Never, Marcone! I will never come to your bed. I swear it.” Harry’s chest heaved as he stared across the desk dividing him from John Marcone, the man who ran Chicago._

 _“Well, over a desk or up against a wall could work, I suppose. If you have an objection to comfort.”_

 _“You bastard! You can’t! I won’t!”_

 _“Then you can face your enemies alone, Dresden. You can take your chances on_ their _mercy, rather than my own.”_

 _Harry groaned, struck by the horror of his impossible situation. John Marcone was a criminal, and one who knew what he wanted. Which had always, always been Harry. Years of turning down the man’s gifts and invitations had led to this. A request for aid and an ultimatum._

 _“This isn’t mercy, Marcone. The monsters I’m fighting aren’t trying to take- take this from me.”_

 _“Oh, Harry.” Marcone said, shaking his head. “Truly? I hadn’t realised that was the sticking point. You’ve never been bedded before?”_

 _Harry was quick to blush, always had been, and he could feel the warmth creeping across his cheeks then, betraying his embarrassment. “That’s none of your business!”_

 _“It’s the business at hand. I‘d make sure you enjoyed yourself, of course. I’d be as attentive a lover as any you could hope for.”_

 _“I don’t want a lover!”_

 _“So you’ve said. In which case, we really must wrap this up. I have other matters to attend to.”_

 _Harry’s final hope of salvation was almost out of his grip. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and choked out words he never thought he’d say. “Fine. Help me, Marcone, and I’ll give you what you want. But... only, only after, and you have to promise not to hurt me.”_

 _“A small amount of discomfort it to be expected, particularly the first time. But I swear to make sure that’s the last thing on you mind.”_

Bob always gets interrupted when he gets to the good parts. Not the battle scene, obviously, he was going to skip straight over that. It was the reluctant-virgin-transformed-to-shameless-wanton he’d been looking forward to. Instead, the trap door flies open and Bob abandons Mister, diving back into the refuge of his skull.

It’s the apprentice, Harry’s first, and naturally he’d picked one with an aptitude for forbidden magics. It made sense, considering Harry’s lineage; It was always best for like to teach like. The girl stares at the cat, who stretches out and paws at the type writer.

“Again?” she says. “Aren’t there supposed to be an infinite number of you for this to happen?” She reaches down and plucks the paper from the machine.

“Hey, your grammar got better. But Marcone, again? You ever want to mix it up a little?”

Bob could take offense at that, because he does, _sometimes_. He’s written about Harry questing with that carpenter Knight of the Cross, their steamy adventures across lost continents. It’s probably lucky the apprentice never interrupted him then; humans are odd about blood ties and sexual activity. She keeps reading, a smirk on her face.

“Wow. You know, if Marcone ever tried to pull this shit, Harry would set his _ass on fire_ faster than you could blink.” Bob knows that. Bob has also discovered a fascinating little phrase called ‘creative license’, and he enjoys it to the full. “Not a bad set up, though,” she mutters. The girl sets the paper down, and then scritches Mister’s ears. “You taking requests, big man? How about... mmm... Harry with Carlos? He could rescue him from a monster maybe. A dragon? And then sweep him off to someplace in the Nevernever. ...Like a secret love nest. And teach him _everything_. Magic, and screwing- maybe both at once? That’d be pretty cool.”

Hmmm. Maybe. Bob makes a note for future reference, but he wants to finish this project first. The apprentice bangs around, makes a couple of atrocious attempts at evocations that have Bob wishing he were permitted to address her, and then leaves.

The cat has long since abandoned him, so Bob is forced to posses the typewriter directly. It’s harder to manipulate something with no sense of its self as a whole, but he’s on a roll, he’ll get by.

 _Harry clutched the bathrobe around himself and curled up tightly on the bed, eyeing Marcone where he lounged across the sheets, looking like a lazy cat, too smug to quite work up the effort to pounce. But it was only a matter of time._

 _“Take your robe off, sweetheart. Get comfortable.”_

 _“Don’t call me that, scumbag.”_

 _“I can call you what I want, Harry.”_

 _He could, and there were worse words that applied to a man who sold his body for protection. Harry unfastened his robe with shaking hands. “You said you’d be gentle.”_

 _“Like you’re made of glass, Harry. Don’t worry yourself.”_

 _Harry couldn’t help it. He was about to surrender to John Marcone, surrender the only thing he could never take back. He stripped himself of the shelter of his robe and then lay naked under Marcone’s avaricious gaze. The man reached out, brushing his fingers across Harry’s mouth. “Mine.”_

 _It took everything Harry had not to flinch. He was a man of his word, and he’d promised Marcone this. But still. He closed his eyes. Marcone moved unseen, and then a kiss brushed across his lips. “Open up to me sweetheart.” Harry parted his lips obediently and sighed. Marcone was good at this, apparently had the skills to make good on his promises._

 _“Good boy,” Marcone murmured. “Just like that.”_

 _Marcone worked a thigh between Harry’s legs, and Harry had an idea of what was expected of him here. He spread them, leaving Marcone room to settle over him, to rub his thick hard cock against Harry’s own. Harry shivered, not used to being touched down there. His cock was responding to Marcone’s arousal, growing hard between the press of their bodies. Marcone was so_ strong _, Harry thought he could go on for ever like this, rubbing against him until they both came. Marcone nudged at Harry’s jaw gently, tipping his head back, and then set his teeth against Harry’s neck. Harry whimpered and clutched at the sheets. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”_

 _“Only a very little,” Marcone purred, and bit down gently._

 _“AH!” Harry’s hips thrust up shamelessly, he spread his legs further and wrapped one behind Marcone, tugging him in closer, tighter. “Oh! Oh! Please.”_

 _“There we go,” Marcone smiled, and returned to worry at his mark on Harry’s neck. “I’d keep you if I could Harry, I’d make you beg every night for my cock. I’d teach you some manners or leave you desperate.”_

 _“Please!” Harry gasped. “Anything.”_

 _Marcone laughed darkly. “I promised to be careful with you sweetheart, so I won’t take you at your word.”_

 _Harry didn’t care. There were good reasons not to want this, him, but there and then the whole world consisted of John Marcone’s powerful body moving against his own. Marcone pulled away to retrieve something and Harry thought he might die, separated from the source of all his pleasure._

 _“John!” he said, and then cursed himself for losing that last barrier between them. He’d never be_ ‘that scumbag’ _again._

 _“I’ve got you,” John promised, and then he did. His fingers were slick, sliding past Harry’s aching cock, his tight balls, to touch him where no-one ever had. He slid a finger inside and Harry clamped down on it, no longer able to breathe because he had a man inside him._

 _“Been saving this for me, Harry?” John asked, easing in and out with one clever finger. “Well I’m here now, relax.”_

 _Harry tried to as John worked another finger inside of him. “God. Oh godohgod! More, I need- I don’t care if it hurts.”_

 _“I care,” John told him, and then shifted his fingers inside Harry, like he was beckoning. It felt like magic, and Harry reached up to grab at John’s shoulders, scrabbling for purchase, like John could hold Harry up when he was drowning in pleasure._

 _“Oh!”_

 _“Good boy. It makes me even harder Harry, seeing you like this. Clinging. Desperate.”_

 _“Oh please!” Marcone does please, and he_

“Wake up Bob! I need to know what kind of nasty would- _Bob?_ ” his master’s voice trails to a halt, and Bob kind of wishes he was in Mister. The beast isn’t exactly cute, but being able to turn wide cat eyes on a human has its advantages. Typewriters aren’t quite so emotive. “Hey, did you get started on that copy of the Accords I wanted? Lemme see.”

“Uh, boss, I don’t think that’s a good- ”

“MARCONE? What- I- Bob? What the _hell_ is this?”

It’s Bob’s job, to know all the answers. It’s what Bob is. But he’s not sure he knows the answer to that one.


End file.
